Cornwall & Company Mysteries Escape to Paradise

By Sara M. Barton

Special digital boxed set…The first three books in the Cornwall & Company Mystery Series:

NOW WITH A NEW ENDING! Book 1: Who Hates Marigold Flowers?

How does a wedding planner from Lake Placid, New York end up in the trunk of a Toyota Corolla submerged in a frozen lake near Windham, nearly two hundred miles away? It's easy if you've got two contract killers after you!

Marigold Flowers doesn't understand why anyone would want to kill her. Her specialty is parties, not crime. But there's no denying that someone with a lot of money and significant resources is out to silence her. What secrets does she hold about international money laundering and a criminal syndicate?

NOW WITH A NEW ENDING! Book 2: In the Shadows of a Lie

Booted out of the Department of Justice's WitSec program, suspected of orchestrating the attempted murder of a US Marshal…how can life get any more perilous for Marigold Flowers?

Now that she's shed her old alias, the reborn Olivia Michaud is determined to prove her innocence with the help of Jefferson Cornwall, best-selling thriller author and TV producer, and his brothers. What does all this have to do with her WitSec life in Rhode Island? Was it her fault Jared Spears was brutally murdered? With millions of dollars at stake, and a clever villain on her heels, Olivia is determined to figure out the secret her fiancé took to the grave with him.

Book 3: Bury Me in Paradise

Now settled in Atlanta, Olivia Michaud is shocked to discover she's still on someone's hit list. Desperate to keep her alive, Jefferson Cornwall sends her off to stay with friends of his who are retired FBI agents. But there is nowhere safe for this damsel in distress!

Snatched in Georgia by a couple of hired thugs, Olivia is tossed into the back of a van for a harrowing trip down to Florida. The mastermind of this twisted scheme needs to keep her alive long enough to retrieve a fortune in laundered money in Curaçao. As Jefferson Cornwall and his security team work feverishly to locate the missing woman, time is running out for Olivia. The minute that boat hits international waters, she may be lost forever. Can the plucky heroine keep her wits about her, even as a ruthless murderer continues his killing spree?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sara Barton
• Release date: May 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393126959

Sara M. Barton

Sara M. Barton is the author of several popular cozy mystery series that often feature humor, romance, and pets, but no ghosts, witches, or psychics (It’s not that she thinks these are bad books; it’s that she’s more of a traditionalist when it comes to cozies.) She’s the author of a new historical mystery called The Pantomime Double-Cross, with a heroine who has lived a secret life for forty-five years, unbeknownst to family and friends. Under the pen name of S. M. Barton, she’s written several espionage thrillers, including The Mirrors: A Moscow Joe Cyberspy Thriller. Once she wraps up the final chapter of her old life, Sara’s slated to begin her new life and tackle her overdue bucket list. When she’s not writing, she loves to get outside and enjoy nature, especially after hip replacement: “If my new hip were a man, I would marry him in a heartbeat for all the right reasons. He’s good to me, takes me wherever I want to go, and he’s fun to be around. Perfect qualities in a mate.” Happy Reading! The Practical Caregiver Guides website: https://practicalcaregiverguides.org Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/sarabartonmysteries/ Twitter: https://twitter.com/bartonmysteries Cozy Mystery Series: The Scarlet Wilson Mysteries revolve around innkeeper Scarlet Wilson and her knack for stumbling into murder most foul. The eight-book series is laced with humor and romance. The Cornwall & Company Mysteries chronicle “Marigold Flowers” and her life on the run as she escapes from ruthless contract killers with the help of Jefferson Cornwall.

Book preview

Chapter One

Wait here.

Those two words were spoken to me as I shivered, standing coatless and terrified, defenseless against the winter night’s arctic chill. Even as the emergency responders poured into the park, they weren’t interested in me. They were trying to rescue the woman in the submerged car, the one who didn’t escape. They worked frantically to free her from her metal prison, but as the minutes ticked on, I knew it was useless.

Put this on, said a passing firefighter, handing me a jacket, dark and stiff, made of nylon. Hurriedly, I slipped my arms into the sleeves and pulled it around me. It came only to my knees and did little to protect my stocking-covered legs. My long, wet hair wrapped around my shoulders like the proverbial albatross, ready to drag me down under its unruly weight. I was torn between keeping it under the coat and leaving it exposed to the extreme temperature, where the strands would quickly ice up. It looked like a losing proposition either way.

Sighing heavily, I watched him hurry towards the active disaster scene, a man on a mission. I could have told him he was too late. I could have saved him that cold trip into the frigid water at the bottom of the hill. After all, I had spent the last three hours confined inside that car. I knew only too well what they would find.

Pull it up! shouted a voice from behind the monstrous emergency vehicle at the edge of that all-to-real nightmare on the shore. I heard the heavy chain clang against the gears on the motorized pulley as it was drawn taunt, fighting the bulky weight of the Toyota Corolla. The icy surface of the pond broke apart once more. Huge chunks of ice thumped and thudded against one another. Get the jaws!

Frantic, the army of rescuers got into position and began to saw away the twisted metal. I pulled the borrowed jacket closer as I watched, stomping my feet in a feeble attempt to prevent frostbitten toes. A moment later, they had the body free and loaded onto the stretcher. The crowd fell away one by one, until there were only four figures working fiercely in the brilliant beam of white light to revive the limp, lifeless form. The pallet was carefully carried to the waiting ambulance, one man still pumping hard with chest compressions as the others maneuvered it into the vehicle. The engine roared to life the second the heavy doors slammed shut, and with a loud rumble of tires on gravel and a series of loud beeps, the emergency vehicle backed up. The driver pulled a u-turn before steering it onto the road and out of the park. A moment later, the siren split the night with an ear-deafening warning as the medical truck headed for the highway.

Ma’am? A hand touched my elbow and I jumped, startled by the unexpected contact. Come with me. Let me drive you to the station for your statement.

I couldn’t see the man’s face, although I saw the glint of wire-rimmed glasses in the dim light. He was taller than me by a foot or so. From the sound of his voice and the curve of his chin in the dim moonlight, I guessed he was in his forties. Why did he make me nervous?

Ma’am? He said the word again as I felt those fingers on my elbow, but this time he didn’t let go, even when I tried to shrug him off. Let’s get you warmed up.

Don’t touch me, I told him, instinctively recoiling in fear. Why was I so apprehensive about this rescuer? Was it the shock talking? Had the unexpected events of what should have been a pleasant evening heightened my sense of danger?

I’m trying to help you, he insisted, his voice silky smooth. Was it too smooth? For a brief second or two, I hesitated, almost willing myself to believe him, to believe I was just being overly cautious. After all, why would he be here if he wasn’t part of the rescue team?

Please don’t touch me, I said, quivering. I don’t want you to touch me.

You can trust me, he promised, stepping closer. Before I could respond, he wrenched my arm behind my back. That’s when I knew my instincts were spot on. This guy was dangerous. My urge to survive kicked in. I needed help and I needed it now.

Let me go! I tried to scream, but only a choked whisper escaped from my lips. It was immediately lost in the commotion of the chaotic scene fifty yards away. I forced myself to try again, this time remembering to push the air up through my diaphragm and out of my mouth with more confidence than I felt. The growl that emerged raised the hackles on the back of my neck with its unexpected power. Let...me...go!

What’s going on? I heard an alarmed voice shout in the distance.

Help! I hollered weakly. The stranger had my hands in his and he wouldn’t let go, even as I writhed with the desperation of a tiny wren whose wings were clipped by a hungry feral cat.

Hey! another voice called out. Stop right there!

Nothing to worry about, fellows, he told them confidently, still restraining me. I’m a cop!

So am I...New York State Police. Let’s see your badge, demanded a man in uniform as he came up behind us. Nice and easy, pal.

How about a little professional courtesy?

I think not, said the trooper as he pulled something from his belt. A powerful spotlight split the darkness and landed upon us, allowing me to see the man who claimed I was his prisoner. He winced, putting a black-gloved hand to his face. For a moment, I thought he was trying to conceal his identity.

Take my word for it. I’m a cop, the stranger insisted.

I have a better idea, the trooper with the flashlight announced. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine. I’ll go first. Here’s mine.

He pointed to the badge pinned on his chest. Number 143. Where’s yours?

I don’t want to release my prisoner, my plainclothes captor informed him warily. She might try to flee.

Prisoner? That didn’t sound good to me, especially since I couldn’t recall breaking any laws. If anything, I was the victim, given that I had just kicked my way out of the trunk of that Toyota. Do you know how hard it is to find the release switch in the darkness, as the icy water begins to creep in through the crack between sedan body and trunk? Trust me, it’s maddening, especially when your fingers are numb and your blood is almost the consistency of a Slurpee.

Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she stays put until we sort this thing out, said Badge 143. Apparently he wasn’t buying the stranger’s story either. In the light of a fellow officer’s torch, I could see a determined expression on his face. I’m going to have to see it, since you identified yourself as a law enforcement officer.

My captor must have recognized the skepticism emanating from his challenger. He let go of my left arm and raised his own hand up, signaling his intention to retrieve his shield.

Fine. Let me get it out, was the gruff response. But if you ask me, this is totally unnecessary.

Badge Number 143 took two steps towards us in anticipation of reviewing those credentials. As he did, the stranger pulled me back, in an odd sort of dance that kept me out of grabbing distance of the uniformed trooper. It occurred to me that he was preparing himself for something. Was it fight or flight?

I found out moments later. Casually releasing my other arm with a shrug, he drew a furtive, nearly silent breath as he stood beside me. A second later, his balled-up fist struck the middle of my back with such brute force that it propelled me forward, pitching me into the trooper. Desperate, I clutched at the nearest object within reach; it turned out to be a trooper’s moving arm. I didn’t expect him to react by shaking me off with equal desperation.

Gun!

A moment later, three shots rang out in rapid succession. Bang, bang, bang. Something struck my ear with a sharp thwack and I immediately felt a burning sensation at the side of my head, with all the intensity of a thousand angry hornets stinging at once. I heard yelling as the cops swiftly reacted to live gunfire. Hands shoved me down towards the ground, and as my palms made contact with its icy crust, feet scrambled past me. I felt myself slipping on the slick, frosted surface, and down the incline I went, my stocking-covered legs exposed, my skirt drawn up to my crotch.

Police! Stop!

Drop your weapon!

More shots followed. Unable to control the wild trajectory of my tobogganing body, I felt myself gaining speed as I careened along a path that would surely send me into the frozen lake. All I could think of was how long it had taken me to climb up the hill, and in less than thirty seconds, it had all come undone. I was headed back into that horrifying hell from which I had already escaped once tonight.

No! I protested. Hoping to hit the water feet first, I tried to twist myself onto my back and turn around, wildly flapping my arms like a demented snow angel. If only I could fly.

A figure dressed in reflective clothing and wearing a firefighter’s helmet determinedly stepped into my path, planted his feet firmly in the snow crust, and spread his legs apart. He bent over, hands extended in my direction, ready and waiting. I closed my eyes and prepared to go through that human croquet wicket at full speed, hoping I didn’t take him with me into the black water beyond. But something banged against my shoulder and then my leg. My body jerked sideways. Seconds later, agile fingers tightened around the collar of my borrowed jacket as the man stood his ground and I skidded to a stop. There you go. Let me help you up.

He lifted me to my feet with his strong arms and then released me. I wobbled, slightly dazed and more than a little confused, still reeling from the dizzying ride. He studied me, peering carefully at my face, and then he suddenly glanced at the ground. I watched his face contort into a frown as he leaned towards me again. You’re bleeding.

Am I? I looked down. Red droplets splattered on the crust of the snow. Searching for the source of that crimson stain, my nearly numb fingers touched my cheek. It was warm and sticky. And then I remembered that stinging sensation and reached for my right ear. Ouch!

I have an injury here! shouted my rescuer. Moments later, a crowd gathered around me.

He got away, said one cop. He had a car in the parking lot. We’ve got an APB out.

Okay. She’s been shot. Put some light on it.

Shot? I uttered. My head felt like it was detaching from my body. Was it shock or loss of blood? How bad was it? Someone turned my head, trying to examine the wound, and I gave up an involuntary gasp. The pain was excruciating.

How bad is it? Do we need a med evac? If it’s a bullet wound in the head, we’ll have to summon a chopper.

More hands touched me. I closed my eyes against the onslaught of flashlights.

It’s just the ear. No skull penetration. Nothing that a couple of stitches won’t fix, someone decided.

Do we need another ambulance?

Yeah, but the only available one is still responding to a crash on the Interstate, a short man in a Yankees cap replied as he joined us. If we need them, it’s going to be a fifteen-minute wait.

Want me to make the run with her to the hospital, loo? asked Badge Number 143. I haven’t had a chance to question her yet.

Do it. What else do we have here? The lieutenant moved away, taking with him several other first responders.

Miss, press this gently against your ear. We want to stop the bleeding, said my rescuer as he ripped off the paper wrapping from a gauze pad. I felt a warm hand grip mine and position it on the bandage at the side of my face. I’ll ride along.

Great. I want to pop into the Quickie Mart for a snack on the way back to the station, Gordo. I pulled a double today and I’m starving.

No problem. Gordo removed his helmet and handed it off to a fellow firefighter. Miss, do you think you can walk to the cruiser?

It took me a few moments to realize he was talking to me. I was too busy trying to keep my head on straight, even as it seemed to roll forward.

Oh, geez! I don’t think she’s hearing us. Her eyes aren’t quite focused. That sounded like Badge 143 talking.

She’s all wet. It’s probably hypothermia. Anyone got a blanket? Gordo called out to his teammates.

How’d she get wet? I thought she was just a witness. Someone told me she called it into the station.

Maybe she went in trying to rescue the woman in the car, suggested another firefighter, arriving with a blue fleece emergency blanket. Gutsy move, if you ask me.

You got a purse, miss? The din from the clamoring voices made my head hurt so much that I thought it would split in two. Is your car here?

Is...my...what...where?

Do you have your phone? Maybe we can get your personal info off of that, suggested a helpful voice from behind me.

We didn’t find a purse anywhere, someone else remarked, let alone a vehicle.

Was she with the guy who got away?

You think she knows the shooter?

All these questions just seemed to buzz around in my brain, like a thousand fireflies trapped in a nylon insect net. One minute I thought I heard their wings flapping and the next, nothing.

I woke up under the flicker of fluorescent lights inside an ambulance. I don’t know how long I was out. The first thing I noticed was a warm sensation that seemed to inch its way across my belly, offering comfort to my battered soul. That euphoria quickly changed to horror when I discovered that the only thing that covered my now-naked body was a thin sheet of silvery film. Three men leaned forward on the bench seat beside me, intent on observing my every move. I clutched the Mylar wrapping, trying to rise. Heat packs, tucked into the recesses of my arm pits, fell onto the stretcher and bounced off, hitting the floor below.

Don’t move, warned the paramedic, as he lifted the blanket to replace them. It can cause a heart attack. Just lay back down and rest. We’re trying to get your body temperature to rise safely.

Even as he said that, he was checking my heart with a cold stethoscope. I shivered, but a moment later that delicious warmth found me again, as he added another couple of Insta-Hot packs, this time on top of a cotton blanket.

We don’t want to burn you, he smiled, patting my covered shoulder. Sorry, but we had to take off your wet clothes. Can you tell us your name?

My name? I actually paused to consider this. What was my name? Why couldn’t I recall it? Think hard. You know this. Picture it in your mind. You were named after a flower. Genus Calendula officinalis. Pot marigold. The common, ordinary garden variety planted in flower boxes and beds across America.

Marigold. My name is Marigold.

She must be worse off than she looks, said the man who had rescued me from that disastrous downhill trip. I could see Gordo now. He had kind eyes that crinkled at the corners and gray hair. He had removed his reflective jacket and was dressed in street clothes. She thinks she’s a flower.

Maybe she was without oxygen too long, said a second paramedic. What was the response time?

Six minutes, my rescuer informed him. Dispatch took the call at 10:07 and we arrived on the scene at 10:13. We still don’t know how or why she was wet.

Trunk, I muttered, even as I found myself nodding off. I was in...the trunk.

That was the last thing I said before I lost consciousness.

How long was I out? I blinked, trying to recall what I knew I had forgotten, suddenly alert to an eerie silence. Was I dreaming? Glancing around, I took in the details as my foggy brain cleared. Now I could see I was in a hospital bed in a darkened room. The dim overhead light by the built-in cabinet cast a soft glow that spilled across the floor. A long glass-paneled door gave me an uninterrupted view into the hallway, where I could observe the uniformed hospital staff moving about in the nurses’ station. I ran my tongue over my parched lips, suddenly thirsty. As I tried to sit up, hoping to get some water, the creak of a hospital lounge chair startled me as its wooden feet scraped the floor.

Hey, you’re awake, said Badge 143. You want me to call the nurse?

I nodded, unexpectedly feeling teary-eyed. I wanted to cry, but nothing came out. I was woozy, so I eased my head back onto the pillow as he pressed the call button.

Yes? said a disembodied voice through the speaker.

She’s awake and she needs something, but she’s having trouble speaking.

The nurse will be right in.

A tall man dressed in blue scrubs came in. He checked my pulse, my blood pressure, and my temperature, before he offered me a couple of sips of water through the straw in the paper cup he held in his hand.

Not too much. You’ve just had surgery and you’re still under anesthesia, he told me.

In my fuzzy state, I felt the water swirl around the inside my mouth. It felt good, but I gagged when I tried to swallow. My nurse put an arm around my shoulder and raised me up to a sitting position.

Try again, he encouraged me. I closed my eyes and let the water trickle into my throat. This time I managed to keep it down. The doctor will be in to check you in a few minutes. She’s doing rounds now.

Ten minutes later, a short woman with a medication cart and a physician in a white coat with a clipboard came through the doorway. As the doctor read over my chart, the other woman began to dispense pills, one by one, offering me more water each time. Small sips.

Welcome back to the world of the living. How are you feeling, Ms. Doe? Dr. Kuthrapali asked me, her smile bright and cheerful. I licked my lips and tried to find my voice, but the only thing that came out was a groan. Not to worry. It will take some time to get you back up to speed. We’re going to take it slowly. We’ll start you on clear liquids and see how that goes. You were very, very lucky. Dr. Morton was on duty. He’s one of our best plastic surgeons and he was able to save your ear.

Chapter Two

Twenty minutes later, after poking and prodding me, the medical team declared I was in satisfactory condition, all things considered. Now it was a matter of getting some rest.

Badge 143 waited until the hospital staff was out of earshot before he confided to me that I was in the hospital under an assumed name. As far as anyone else is concerned, you’re Jane Doe. We’re still checking on that Marigold alias.

It’s not an alias, I insisted. My name is Marigold...Marigold Flowers. I live in Lake Placid, New York. My twin sisters are named Violet and Pansy. My mother is a landscape architect. My father is a botanist.

For real?

For real. Even the last name is genuine. My grandfather, Harold Whitson Flowers, is a botanist, too. If you don’t believe me, you can look it up on the Internet. I’ve got a blog. It’s called ‘Garden Parties’.

Does that mean you’re in the flower business, too?

Me? No. I’m a special events coordinator, better known as a party planner.

You’re a caterer?

No, I’m the one who coordinates with the caterer. I’m like a general contractor on a construction job.

Oh, he nodded, the go-to guy.

Exactly. What had I been working on when that dreadful woman forced me at gunpoint to climb into the trunk? The only thing I could remember was that satisfied smile on her face as her hand brought the trunk lid down on the latch, enclosing me in what I thought would be my final resting place.

The next few hours seemed to be an unending stream of people coming and going me, with the occasional cup of clear broth or apple juice thrust into my hand. Badge 143, who turned out to be Hank Larkin, finally got a snack when one of the nurses took pity on him and made him a sandwich in the kitchen down the hall. His phone rang while he ate it.

Yeah, loo, he said cheerfully, she’s cooperative—sleepy, but cooperative. Why? Oh, right.

There was a long silence that seemed to stretch on for several minutes. I couldn’t hear the conversation on the other end, but it was obvious from his facial expression that Hank was disappointed. Gone too was the friendly attitude. Something had changed, but what? I expected him to take my statement when he got off the phone, but instead he asked if it would be okay if he watched some TV.

You should get some rest, he informed me before slouching in the lounge chair. He turned on the Knicks game and kept the sound low.

My ear throbbed as the pain medication wore off. It felt like every muscle in my body was sprained or strained. I was relieved when the nurse arrived with some ibuprofen and water.

Hank left just after midnight, when his replacement arrived. He gave me a curt little wave as he headed to the door, but stopped momentarily to gaze back at me. I saw a quick shake of his head, like he was torn about something. A moment later, he spoke. Was that pity I heard in his voice? Good luck, kid. I hope things work out for you.

Thanks. And thank you for protecting me.

Hank shook his head once more, exchanged grim glances with his replacement, and was gone.

Philomena Papadopoulos was a forty-something member of the New York State Police. She came into the room with a thermos of coffee and a briefcase, a confident presence in her black jeans, white sweater, and Uggs.

Hello, Jane Doe. I’m here to make sure nobody tries to snatch you again. You feel free to go back to sleep. I’ll be working on reports, catching up on all my paperwork for next week’s court cases.

Oh...okay, I replied wearily, wondering if I’d be able to keep my eyes open much longer. I found it exhausting to track her movements as she moved about the room. My lids felt heavy as I teetered on the edge of unconsciousness. She finally plopped her gear onto the seat in the corner and strode over to my bedside.

Do you mind if I borrow this? She pointed to the rolling table. Her sharp gaze fastened on me and never let go. Was I a suspect? Surely no one thought I had caused that car to go into the pond.

No, feel free.

After wheeling it over to her temporary work station, she paused to unzip the briefcase and extracted a laptop, stopping only briefly to make a comment when she caught me watching her.

Oh, I know. On television, the cops always sit in a chair in the hallway. I find it hard to concentrate with all the activity. It drives me nuts. Don’t worry. Nobody will bother you. I’m quick on the draw.

Other than the occasional hushed conversation on her cell phone, Philomena labored on quietly through the night. Her presence brought me comfort as the hours passed; it was a reminder that I was not alone. Little by little, I began to relax, and once the day’s accumulated tension left my muscles, I drifted off to sleep.

I dozed fitfully at first. Several times I jerked awake, believing I was still locked inside that Toyota Corolla as it began to sink in the frigid water. My fists were sore from pounding on the rails of the bed. Once I came to, embarrassed to find myself screaming, Let me out!

Philomena stayed where she was, much to my relief. I think I was afraid that I would remember too much if she started asking me to describe what I saw in my nightmares.

As the night wore on, I began to feel better, finding a deeper, more restful sleep in the calm, quiet hospital room, and by the time the morning sun crept through the gaps in the drapes, I was almost my old self again. If only I knew who that really was.

By nine, the scrum of young interns who piled into my room had all leaned over me and examined my treated wound, making the appropriate comments to show they approved of Dr. Morton’s surgical work. The master himself showed up twenty minutes later.

I was able to save the ear, just barely. I might have to go in one more time and do some snipping, nipping, and tucking, he advised me. We’ll know better in a couple of weeks.

I managed to keep down the food I was offered, consuming toast, tea, and more apple juice for breakfast. The attending physician stopped into my room at noon to check me over and declared me ready to be released.

There was only one problem. The cops still had an unidentified body in the morgue and had yet to formally question me about what happened. They just didn’t know what to do with me.

We’ve never had a suspect, the New York State Trooper remarked, quickly catching herself as she glanced at me, "or a victim with an identity crisis quite like this. This is new for us."

I wish I could remember something...anything. I don’t even know what I love or hate. It’s like I’ve lost the real me. What if it never comes back?

Give yourself time. The doctor said you might have suffered a mild concussion when you hit the ground.

But how is it even possible for me to forget who I am? Shouldn’t I be able, at the very least, to recall my name?

You said you are Marigold Flowers.

I am. But I don’t know who Marigold Flowers is.

You told Larkin you were a wedding planner from Lake Placid, that your sisters are Pansy and Violet, and that your grandfather is Harold Whitson Flowers.

I considered that information. That sounds right.

It sounds right? Philomena looked askance at me. In other words, you’re telling me your cover story.

My what?

Never mind. Maybe there’s a psychological block on your memory, she responded, her dark eyes studying me carefully. You don’t dare think about who or what you are.

But what would cause that? Wouldn’t I have to feel guilty about something?

Not necessarily. You might be too afraid to let the truth surface in your conscious mind.

What does that mean, I’m scared silly?

You might be. Maybe something traumatic happened to you.

I heaved a long, sad sigh. Why was my heart heavy at the thought of that? If this was just caused by a light blow to the head, shouldn’t I have just been confused? To be that frightened was a setback. It meant I had to sort out my emotions before I could find myself again.

Look, we’re going to err on the side of caution here, said my bodyguard. We’re still checking your story about the trunk. We found no purse or cell phone in there. If you’ve got the number, we can try to track it.

Sure. Let me think.... I paused, waiting for the digits to pop up in my head, but I drew another blank. Why couldn’t I remember? I’ve got nothing.

Is there a number that we can use to contact your parents?

They’re in Europe, on a river cruise. It’s their anniversary gift to each other.

In the middle of winter? the disbelieving cop wondered.

Castles and Christmas markets. They embarked in Frankfurt and they’re due to disembark in Nuremberg. After that, they’re heading to the Swiss Alps for a chocolate festival. My parents work overtime in the summer. This is their off-season.

Do you have a phone number for them? Maybe we can call them.

It’s.... My mind went completely blank.

Do you know the name of the cruise line?

I closed my eyes, trying to remember. They had their picture taken on the boat. My mom was wearing a scarf on her head....

That sounds like something that happened in your past. Her words quickly doused my thoughts, stopping me in my tracks just as I saw my parents come into focus in my mind.

It does? A wave of sadness struck me. I suddenly found myself tearing up. Oh, maybe you’re right. I have that picture at home, on my wall. I think I don’t want to remember all this. It’s too...too painful.

I guess that makes sense, she decided. You’re starting to remember ordinary details of your life. Larkin told me about your blog. I checked it out. What about your sisters? You want me to get in touch with them?

Violet is based in Vienna. She’s a violinist, but she’s on an extended tour with her orchestra.

Of course she is, Philomena smiled slyly. And Pansy is a pianist, and she’s in Paris.

Ah, if only I had a nickel for every time I heard that one, Philomena. So original. I rolled my eyes. It’s not like it’s my fault that I was named for a common garden plant. Pansy is a trauma surgeon at the Landstuhl Army hospital in Kaiserslautern.

A physician. I was close, Philomena chuckled. My sisters and brothers aren’t nearly as impressive. I’ve got two teachers, a cabbie, and...surprise surprise...a short order cook in the family diner.

Greek food. How stereotypical, I replied with a smirk.

Tell me about it. I spent my high school years waiting tables and working the grill. I used to see gyros in my sleep.

I worked in a sandwich shop my aunt owned. When she started catering, I went along for the ride. That’s how I became an event planner. I was filling in the gaps and coordinating the action.

A working girl? With those clothes, I pegged you for a pampered princess.

I’ve worked all my life.

No college degree?

Actually, I have an MBA, I admitted with a shrug. I got it just in case this thing with the parties didn’t work out.

Just curious. How many parties do you do in a month?

It depends on the time of year. If it’s June or July, I have weddings galore. December is corporate party season. February and March are generally the months where nothing much happens.

Thanks. Philomena picked up her cell phone from the tray table and dialed. You just convinced me you’re telling the truth.

So? What now?

We get you out of here.

Philomena waited in my room with me while the discharge papers were all signed. My battered silk blouse and skirt, bloodied after my nightmare of a night, had been thrown into a plastic bag by my nurse, along with my tattered and torn pantyhose, and handed over to Philomena. I didn’t think they were salvageable, but I wanted to hold onto them just the same. At one fifteen, with my instructions and follow-up appointment card in hand, I was wheeled down to the waiting patrol car and loaded into the back seat.

Half an hour later, after a quick stop at a pharmacy to get my prescriptions filled and to buy a toothbrush, toothpaste, and assorted toiletries, I was driven to the state police barracks and dropped off at the front door.

Wait inside. I’ll be right with you, Philomena instructed me as she dropped me off at the curb.

I went through the front entrance of the building with my bags in hand and waited by the door as people came and went, wondering what the next step would be for me. I still didn’t know how I came to Windham, New York, or even why. What was so important about the town? Or was it just coincidence that the hired killer’s car plunged into that pond? Had she merely pulled off the highway for a break? And if that was the case, how could I explain the man who tried to snatch me, claiming to be a cop, or the bullet that struck me?

My bodyguard joined me in the lobby five minutes later, walking through the doors as she finished a call on her cell phone. My boss wants to talk to you about the case.

I followed like a lost puppy as she wound her way through the maze of hallways, until we came to a stairwell. We climbed to the next floor and headed silently down the carpeted corridor to the third door.

A quick rap of her knuckles on the wood yielded a muffled reply from the other side of the door, and seconds later, she led me through an outer office and into a windowless room. A rather large man sat in a leather desk chair, filling it with his bulk. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut short, his blue eyes steely. He didn’t seem like a man who had an abundance of patience.

Have a seat. He moved things around on his desk, as if he were composing his thoughts as he positioned each item just so. I’m Inspector Vidal.

I sat in the chair on the other side of the desk, while Philomena perched against a wall of file cabinets.

Place of birth, he demanded, pen in hand. The yellow legal pad in front of him was blank, save fore the name Marigold Flowers.

Norfolk, Virginia.

Date of birth, he wanted to know.

June 6, 1980.

Home address, he demanded.

Ah.... I closed my eyes, squeezing the lids tightly, trying to picture the place I lived. I could only remember one thing. It’s in Lake Placid. On a street that hugs the shore. My apartment is on the second floor.

Describe the building, Philomena prompted me.

I don’t know. There’s brick on the exterior. And there is a balcony.

Elevator or stairs? she queried, trying to jog my memory.

Stairs. Second door on the right. Number 202.

What kind of car do you drive?

Not a car. It’s a van. A Ford Transit Connect, in Race Red, to be exact.

License plate?

Mmm....I tried to picture it in my mind’s eye. I could see myself in that parking lot. The twinkling lights were still on and casting their glow upon the snowy landscape, long after the last of the wedding guests had departed. In my arms, I carried some of the decorations we used for the ceremony.

Never mind, he told me, looking down at the notes he had written on a yellow legal pad. We’ll move on.

Gee parties, I replied triumphantly, interrupting him.

Spell it, Inspector Vidal instructed me.

G...P...A...R...T...Y...Z.

Well, it should be easy to find, since it’s a vanity plate. That will give us your address. Phil....

On it, boss. The female detective pulled out her laptop, turned it on, and waited for it to boot up. Once it was up and running, she got busy. She took a seat behind me, tapping away. I folded my hands in my lap demurely, not really sure what comes next.

Let’s move on to the incident in the park.

Okay, but I’m not really sure I’ll be much help. I don’t know who that woman is or why she put me in the trunk.

You sure about that?

Yes, I nodded. I was certain that I was telling him the truth. That’s why his next comment caught me off-guard.

Does that mean you also don’t know how she came to have a bullet embedded in her forehead, Marigold?

Chapter Three

What?

She was shot, was his measured reply, as his eyes lit on me. I could see him carefully scrutinizing my every move, my every twitch.

But...but I didn’t hear a shot! That came out of me unexpectedly.

What did you hear? Give me the blow by blow.

Um...I don’t remember everything, just bits and pieces.

What’s the first thing you remember? Vidal leaned forward. Placing his hands on the desk, he made a church and steeple with his fingers. Start there.

I was cleaning up after a party at a rental venue, I told him, as I went into my memory bank, scrambling to recall the details from those safety deposit boxes in the recesses of my mind. Why was it so hard to think about it? Leaning back in my chair, I shut my eyes, trying to block out the fluorescent light from the fixture attached to the ceiling above as I imagined that darkened ballroom once more. There were boxes stacked by the rear door, where my red van was waiting. We were at the Gilded Nest. It was a wedding—a small one, with only fifty guests.

My assistants had packed up the candelabras and the chair skirts, and even the bunting we used to drape the main table. The crystal pendants that had festooned the table toppers were in their lined boxes, ready for me to load in my van. The white feather-covered dove decorations were secured in their cases, their satin ribbons carefully folded in the cloth sack.

Go home, I had told Arturo and Lily.

We should wait for you, he insisted. It’s late. You’re the last one here.

I’ll be fine. You two have to pay the babysitter. Go, before it costs you another arm and a leg.

Are you sure? Lily was exhausted. Between caring for an active two-year-old and working on this party, she had been on her feet for twelve hours and I could see the circles under her eyes. At least tomorrow was Sunday. They could sleep in.

Of course I’m sure. I’ll be here another ten minutes at the most. What can happen in ten minutes?

What did happen? Vidal prompted me. I shook my head. I wasn’t sure. Did you get in the van and drive away?

No. Someone was waiting...in the hallway.

That was all that my mind needed to picture the scene once more. Suddenly I was back there, at the Gilded Nest in those last few minutes, just before the maelstrom of madness struck with a viciousness that was stunning.

Arturo and Lily had insisted on helping me load the van with the rest of the boxes, so we each made a couple of trips. After shuffling everything into place for the trip home, making sure it was secure, I shut the van door.

Ready? she had asked. Lily was eager to get home. I couldn’t really blame her.

I have to get my purse, make a final check, and shut off the lights. You two go ahead. I’ll be fine, I promised them, looking down at my watch. If you go now, you won’t owe the sitter for another hour.

Her husband was less than thrilled at the prospect of leaving me there on my own, but I shrugged him off. In hindsight, I’m glad I did.

What is there to worry about? I answered cheerfully, with a wide sweep of my hand. How can anything bad ever happen in a place like this? It’s magical!

The Gilded Nest, one of my all-time favorite party venues, was a banquet hall adorned with amazing architectural details that harkened back to the era of the grand, yet rustic Adirondack family camps. In winter, giant snowflake decorations twinkled at the entrance to the wooded property. Evergreen roping, dotted with tiny lights, was draped on the rustic log fences that lined either side of the long, winding driveway to the parking lot. The cedar-shingled lodge, with its steeply-pitched eaves, sat at the top of the hill, dripping with illuminated icicles that sparkled in the darkness. Guests followed an Adirondack granite path up to the front steps of the lodge, where handsome, carved oak double doors, with their pine cone-encrusted wreaths, opened into a cavernous vestibule. Filled with massive Victorian sawn oak furniture in the charming sitting areas and a large ballroom with windows that offered spectacular views of the lake and the mountains, the lodge was a picture perfect setting for any special occasion. Just looking at the place gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling. Or rather it did up until that horrible moment.

I waited as my friends got into their car and fastened their seat belts. Lily started the engine and put the car in gear. As it rolled past me, I waved to the couple inside.

You be careful, Marigold, Arturo said to me through the open window, concern etched on his face. Had he somehow sensed what was to come? Is that why he was so nervous about leaving me alone?

I will. Drive safely! I called out to them. I stood there until the glow of the tail lights disappeared from view, hugging myself to stay warm. The only thing left to do was to go back inside to collect my coat and purse from the office, turn off all of the lights, and lock up.

Back in the warmth of the heated building, I crossed the dance floor of the grand ballroom to the massive stone fireplace and flicked the switch to the gas fire, extinguishing the flames, and then I navigated around the undressed tables and hit the three wall switches to shut off the decorated fig trees and main chandeliers. The remaining lights, I decided, could stay on until I left the building.

As I passed through the opening to the long dark hallway on my way to the office, I thought I caught a slight whiff of sandalwood. Maybe one of the groomsmen had spilled some aftershave when he gave himself a last-minute splash, I told myself. It would surely fade over the next few hours and be gone before the landlord popped in to check on the facility in the morning.

A bright trail of light spilled out onto the carpet of the hallway, beckoning me inside the wood-paneled office. I found my way to the thermostat and turned it down to sixty before walking over to the closet. There, on a wooden hanger, was my coat. I slipped it on and then reached for my shoulder bag, relieved that the long day was over. It would feel good to climb the stairs up to my tiny rented apartment and draw a long, hot bath. I decided to treat myself to a glass of Shiraz while I soaked, reading my new Sorcha O’Hanlon mystery. Tomorrow I would take it easy and catch up on the little things I had been neglecting over the last two weeks as I prepared for this wedding. Yawning, I hit the wall switch for the fluorescent ceiling fixture, leaving the room in darkness.

My eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the change as I stepped out into the narrow corridor on my way back to the grand ballroom. But I never reached it.

What had happened? Think, Marigold. What stopped you from going home?

I had stopped in the kitchen to confirm that the back door was bolted and the caterer had cleaned up before I flicked off the lights. My black high heels, the ones with the understated sprinkling of tiny black crystals on the toes, struck the tiled floor with a musical tap-tap-tap. That was a comforting cacophony of sound to fill the silence as I closed up the Gilded Nest by myself.

Even then, I still felt the joy of pulling off another delightful wedding. Everything had gone like clockwork. The bride and her attendants had set the tone for the celebration. They embraced the overeager flower girl’s faux pas just before the ceremony, laughing as they watched those tiny hands toss all of her rose petals at them as they stood in the back of the lodge in their elegant gowns. Just before the violinist began to play The Christmas Canon, each bridesmaid pulled out a rose from her bouquet, plucked the petals, and refilled the tiny white wicker basket for the walk down the aisle. Everyone was charmed by the little girl with the dimpled cheeks and big brown eyes, who had at last mastered the concept of dropping the colorful petals onto the white bridal path to the fireplace.

I was lost in my reverie as I reentered the hallway, imagining the images the photographer had captured for posterity, when I thought I saw a shadow move ahead of me. I froze, stunned, waiting for what would come next. With my heart in my throat, I dared not breathe. Was I being silly? Maybe I had just picked up on Arturo’s concern and was now imagining that I was not alone. After all, why would anyone hang around the Gilded Nest? The food and liquor were long gone. There was no money to steal, no cash box to snatch, no goodies to pilfer. I reminded myself that there was no reason for anyone to be here. But then I heard it, just a tiny swoosh of movement that seemed to come from my left. I sensed a furtive presence just seconds before the tall silhouette stepped into my path. Startled, I gasped.

Who are you? What do you want? My terror only grew as he walked towards me, but I forced myself to cling to what little was left of my composure. I’m sorry, but the party is over. You’ll have to leave.

Leave? I don’t think so, Marigold Flowers.

The stranger called me by name and that threw me for a loop. What was he doing here, so long after the bride and groom had driven off with the rest of their guests?

In one swift, unexpected leap, he covered the distance between us and he grabbed me. I felt his hands on my throat, trying to squeeze the last breath out of me. I couldn’t see his face, but I noticed his cloying aftershave. He smelled of musky woods. I nearly gagged on it as I went limp.

He backed me against the wall, his forearm against my neck as he fumbled for something in his pocket. By then, my eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness of the hallway and I could see him grinning at me as I struggled to break free. He brought out a small penknife, barely more than a Boy Scout would carry, and put it to my neck, the small, sharp, point nicking my chin.

You and I are going to have a little chat, lady. And you’re going to tell me what I want to know, because if you don’t, I’m going to start cutting! His breath, coffee-scented, was now hot on my cheek. He towered over me menacingly, all the while squeezing the life out of me. Overwhelmed and under pressure, my knees began to buckle and I felt myself crumble. And just when I thought I would pass out, my fingers touched the handle of the mop against the wall, the one I had used to swab up a puddle of spilt Champagne, the result of a guest dropping a flute during the toast to the happy bridal couple. The fingers of my right hand gripped the wooden shaft tightly and I jabbed it upwards, quickly, desperately. I must have struck his face, because suddenly he let go of me, howling like a wounded coyote. Driven by instinct, unable to think clearly, I fled my captor, racing past him like a rabbit on the run, desperately hip-hopping down the hall, even as I tried to locate my key ring inside my shoulder bag. Where were those damn keys?

Even now, in this quiet office, sitting with these two plainclothes strangers, my heart was racing. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm myself. I can’t look. I don’t want to look. This is too awful. The seconds ticked on as I sat there. That icy dread was growing in my chest, gripping me like a vice.

What happened next? Vidal asked me. This time, his voice was gentler. Take it slow.

I...I...I don’t want to see it again, I stuttered. Please!

A terrible chill came over me as I sat there, and I started to shiver as the memory returned to my conscious mind. I knew something bad was about to happen, something really, really bad.

Marigold....

I can’t. I hugged myself, wishing I was six years old once more. That’s when the world was filled with beautiful summer days and ice cream cones with chocolate sprinkles.

Sure you can, Inspector Vidal insisted. No one’s going to hurt you now. You’re safe here.

Am I? I didn’t feel safe.

His eyes fastened on me with a sharp and penetrating gaze, and even though his face was etched by the years on the job and an excessive familiarity with real crime, this New York state trooper had that fatherly tone in his voice, making me think it would be okay if I told him. He wouldn’t run away. He wouldn’t leave me behind. He wouldn’t desert me. I took a gulp of air and let it hit my lungs before I slowly pushed it out, and with it, some of my panic.

I...ran into the ballroom....Someone else came through the door. He had a...a gun and he shot the man chasing me.

Do you know who the second man was?

Mmm.

Mmm what? he probed. Do you know who he was?

Not really sure, I hedged, suddenly worried. What was I worried about? I shouldn’t be talking about this. I could get into a lot of trouble.

Let’s move on. What happened after the second man shot the first?

Um, I replied, hoping to stall for time. Why did I need time? Why couldn’t I just tell Inspector Vidal what had happened to me?

Boss? It was Philomena. She clutched her laptop in her hands. Had she found something? Can we step out for a moment?

Sure, he told her, still watching me, his head cocked to one side.

They were gone no more than thirty seconds or so. I was still shaking in my seat when they returned.

Marigold, who was the second man? Inspector Vidal asked me again. I looked up, shaking my head.

I...I don’t know, I insisted. An odd expression came over his face, changing his demeanor. He didn’t believe me.

I’m going to ask you one more time. Who was the second man? This time he was all cop, with no soft side showing.

How should I know? I cried. I’m just a party planner!

Philomena leaned over me and placed her open laptop in front of me. Take a look.

I did as she asked, moving my eyes to the screen. There was a headline. United States Marshal Gunned Down!

What? I gasped, trying to read more, even as my chest felt like it would explode as my heart went into overdrive. I tried to focus on the words, but my eyes wouldn’t cooperate.

The United States Marshals Service acknowledged that one of their agents was gunned down at the Gilded Nest, a well-known Lake Placid banquet facility. Tovar Abajo is reportedly in critical condition after being transported to Adirondack Medical Center, where he underwent six hours of surgery for four bullet wounds, one of which punctured his lung.

Oh, no! It really did happen, I groaned. I didn’t dream it.

Did you drive the getaway car? Is that what you’re hiding? Philomena demanded. You and the dead woman worked together?

No! I would never do that to Tovar! He has a wife and a child! Those involuntary words, born of my despair, slipped out of my mouth before I could swallow them.

In the silence that followed, no one spoke. I could hear the ticking of the wall clock ten feet away as the thin, black second hand swept past each incremental mark on the face. What was I going to do now? If Tovar was in the hospital, who could I count on?

Marigold, said the man sitting across from me, are you in the WitSec program?

I slumped down in the chair, wanting to disappear behind some invisible shield that would hide me from the world. I don’t have anything to say.

Sure you do. This is clearly an emergency, Philomena came around and parked herself on the corner of her boss’s desk, crossing her arms. We can’t help you if you don’t cooperate.

You don’t understand.

Give us a chance to know your side of the story, Vidal encouraged me.

I don’t have a story, I mumbled, avoiding eye contact. I wondered whether it was worth it to slip away. Could I ask to use the ladies room and climb out the window?

Phil, make the call. See who’s assigned to take care of Marigold Flowers.

You can’t call the switchboard and tell people who I am and where I am! Panic gripped me by the throat, cutting off my air supply. I couldn’t breathe.

Do you have a handler? asked the man across the desk, pen in hand. I could insist on discussing the situation only with that person.

That’s just it, I groaned. Tovar was my guy, my only guy. His partner went out on emergency maternity leave last week and the boss just retired. They were in the process of switching gears, but because I’m supposed to be moved next month, they decided not to change anything.

What about the boss that retired? Can we reach out to him? The female state trooper leaned forward. Come on, Marigold. Help us to help you.

I don’t know where he went. All he told me at the last meeting six weeks ago was that he and his wife bought a place where the fishing is better than fine.

A brusque knock interrupted the conversation. We all turned towards the door as Vidal responded with a bellow.

Come in!

A short man with a schoolboy face entered the room, holding a file folder in his left hand. Flipping it open, he presented it to Vidal.

Boss, we got an ID on the victim in the car. She’s one Kelly Wainwright, alias Cassandra Klee, alias Lorissa Kraupt. She’s a hired hand out of Milwaukee.

Someone shot and killed an assassin? That had Philomena’s attention immediately. Then who was the guy who shot at our people?

Any ideas, Marigold? Inspector Vidal wondered. To be honest, I was fresh out of them, still reeling from the confirmation that the woman who had tossed me into the trunk of her car was a professional killer.

Why didn’t she murder me when she had the chance? I asked the three state troopers. It seemed like a sensible question. Why did she throw me into the trunk? Where was she taking me?

We don’t know yet. Maybe she had a rendezvous with the man who tried to snatch you at the park.

He didn’t want to kill me right away either, I pointed out.

Unusual, Philomena decided, taking notes. You must have some value to someone. Are you sure you didn’t recognize either of the people who tried to grab you?

Positive.

So, the next question is what do we do with you while we try and hook up with someone at the Marshals Service who can be trusted? Phil, any ideas?

Let’s get in touch with the retired boss and see what he says. Are you good with that, Marigold?

Sure, I nodded. Do you think you can find him?

It depends on where he settled when he retired, Inspector Vidal decided. I’ll have to run this at the highest levels, so we don’t slip up and put you in greater danger. Give us the details and we’ll get this figured out. In the meantime, I’m sending you off with one of my K-9 guys to an undisclosed location to sit it out.

Can’t I just stay here? I asked, feeling unexpectedly anxious about my future. I don’t mind.

We’ve got too many folks coming in and out, Marigold. Believe me when I tell you you’re safer with my K-9 guy. He’ll take great care of you, I promise.

But...can’t you just stick me with Philomena?

No, I can’t, Inspector Vidal replied. She’s a great detective, but protection isn’t her specialty. Jack will be your security officer. He’s Phil’s husband.

Oh. I looked up at her, surprised. Somehow, I hadn’t thought she was the marrying kind.

If you’re surprised now, wait till you meet him, she smiled.

Twenty minutes later, I found out what she meant. I was still sitting in the same chair, going over details with Philomena. Vidal was in a meeting with his boss. There was a quick tap on the door and a moment later, it was swept open with a powerful burst of energy. In walked a muscular man and an equally muscular German shepherd.

Did someone say party? Dark brown hair tinged with gray, almond-shaped, dark brown eyes, and a crooked smile that was hard to resist, I made note of all the details as the trooper extended his hand to me. Jackson Cornwall. Call me Jack. Nice to meet you.

Hi, I nodded, feeling the brute strength of his fingers on mine. That was one of the firmest handshakes I ever experienced. It told me this man was more than capable of handling trouble.

And how is the love of my life? Jack grabbed his wife, dipped her backwards and planted a big kiss on her lips before returning her to the upright position. You’ve still got it, baby.

See what I mean? Philomena turned to me and rolled her eyes. We’ve been married for fourteen years now. Every day is an adventure.

Marigold, meet Brutus, the K-9 handler said, introducing his dog. When he’s got his harness on, he’s all business. When that comes off, he’s like any other canine—he likes to play.

The big dog sat on his haunches beside his boss, watching me with an alert gaze. I wondered if I should be concerned about making the wrong move. Would the dog attack me?

Chapter Four

Jack seemed to sense my concern.

Not to worry. He responds on command, Marigold. Brutus doesn’t get to do his own thing. He’s a working dog and he’s got a job to do.

Great to know. I wasn’t totally convinced. Those dark brown eyes never stopped watching me.

Not a dog person? Jack inquired.

It’s not that. I...I haven’t had one since I was a kid, and then it was a beagle. Brutus is a lot bigger.

"Big, small; it’s the same kind of animal. You just have to get to